Vitalis
by GrayRobes
Summary: Death fights for a book and a future, and maybe love. What if an Auditor survived sensation enough to create a halfhuman child? What if Albert gets a makeover? What if Death were human? Read to answer these questions! DeathxOC. M: later chapters. R&R plz!
1. Back to the Future

**Chapter One**

_Because I could not stop for Death—_

_He kindly stopped for me—_

_The Carriage held but just Ourselves—_

_And Immortality._

--Emily Dickinson, Because I could not stop for Death

* * *

Within the immeasurable blue recess of infinity lies the home of Death, more commonly known as the dark country. There is an apple orchard with black apples, a garden of black flowers, monochrome bees with black honey, and a black golf course that warps the fabric of reality. 

You can tell that there is an underlying theme here. Except for the corn.

It billows in golden ripples, in a field where there is no wind. In this monotonous landscape, it is the only true beauty, crafted with the knowledge of experience. Yet it stands alone against the stark splendor of Death's Domain. Though it looks real, it is not alive.

Death stands amidst the golden stalks, scythe at the ready, but not to harvest. Not here. He seems lost in his thoughts; his supernova pupils are dim and low. He is holding an hourglass.

For a moment, caught in the skeletal hand, a name flashes from in between bony fingers that are partially covering it up. The name hasn't changed since its creation, but Death is transfixed by it. Sometimes there are things that are extraordinary to the extraordinary. Death's eye sockets flare an intense, burning blue.

PERHAPS IT IS TIME FOR A CHANGE, he says to himself.

The silver sand in the hourglass freezes in place, stopped in mid-flow. It's owner is about to be in for one hell of a surprise.

* * *

Writer's block is a terrible thing, usually cured by one of three things: alcohol, for that little step away from reality, Klatchian coffee, for a little too much reality, and sex, because good sex has inspired some of the best novels of all time. 

Grace Tippet was at the Lazy Lady, a small pub of stoic drinkers, attempting to cure her writer's block by method number one. Now, there are also two types of writer, the quiet inspirational type, and the quirky insane ones. Grace was a peculiar mixture of both. She was carefully nursing a small mug of beer, and wa trying to write her ideas by arranging the peanuts at the counter.

A voice like the echo of a boulder thrown into a canyon said, BARKEEP, A MUG OF YOUR FINEST. AND ONE FOR THE LADY.

Grace finished her own glass of mystery brew and took the glass and took the one proffered by the stranger. "Thank you." She was quiet until the tall man asked YOUR NAME IS GRACE? She replied, "Yes, how did you know?"

He replied I HAVE READ YOUR BOOK. IT WAS CALLED DEATH, DUTY, AND DESIRE; A DISSERTATION. Grace tried to recall what she had wrote, then frowned.

"'S a good title. Reeeal good. I wish it was mine. But I haven't wrote no book yet. Only half of one. 'S not done."

Death could not frown, but if he could, he would have done so. YOU HAVEN'T? DAMN. I'M EARLY. I REALLY LIKED SOME OF THE CHAPTERS ABOUT ME. PARTICULARLY WHERE YOU TOLD ABOUT THE STRUGGLES ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATIONS FACE WHEN INTERACTING WITH HUMANITY.

Grace muzzily took a swig of beer. "I wrote that?" she asked finally.

YES.

"I don't 'member doin' that…" she mumbled into her drink.

OF COURSE NOT. IT HAPPENS FIVE MONTHS FROM NOW. THE BOOK IS A BESTSELLER.

Grace's alcohol muddled mind was attempting to order her mouth to say that this was impossible, but another swig of alcohol silenced that. Eventually a thought emerged from her mouth, as she asked, "Have we met before?"

IN A WAY. I'VE SEEN EVERYONE'S NAME AROUND HERE AT LEAST ONCE. This seemed to satisfy Grace, who said, "So, wha's your name?"

Caught off guard, and not wanting to scare her, Death stammered UH….IT'S B-BILL. BILL DOOR

"D-do you live 'round here, Mr. Door?"

ER….NO.

"You seem a bit odd, y'know. A little knobby, almost." Death struggled for a response to explain himself in a way she would understand without actually lying to her.

I'M FOREIGN. Grace nodded sagely with newfound wisdom found at the bottom of every drunk's glass everywhere. "Ohhhhh…you're new? You need to be shown 'round and get the ropes an' stuff, so you come'n talked to the famous writer to get the hang o' things." Death decided to go with this. YES. THAT IS EXACTLY CORRECT.

"Since I ain't wrote no book yet, you better be able to pay for th' tour." Death gingerly set down two ancient gold coins, stamped with some dead monarch. WILL THIS BE ENOUGH? Grace's eyes widened at the sight of gold, then she frowned.

Grace was not the most lovely woman on the Disc. Far from it. Most writer's aren't. She had short, feathery blond hair an watery brown eyes, and while she wasn't fat, she wasn't particularly curvaceous. But she had an intelligent face, soft scrubbed skin, and she was in shape. Sometimes men had shown an undue….unhealthy interest.

:Er….you're not wantin' like…estra stuff are you. 'Cause I don't do that."

THE PAYMENT IS UNACCEPTABLE?

"I just mean all you are expectin' is a tour, right? And maybe lunch."

YES, said Death solemnly. THAT IS ALL.

"Oh, well, that's all right then. Tomorrow, then. We'll meet here. What time is good for you?"

MY WORK LETS ME GET AROUND EARLY. Grace thought carefully, an impressive feat for a drunk. "So…..nine o'clock, right? And lunch. But you're payin' for it."

OKAY.


	2. Around the World in 15 Minutes

Chapter 2

_We slowly drove—He knew no haste_

_And I had put away_

_My labor and my leisure too,_

_For His Civility—_

Emily Dickinson, "Because I could not stop for Death"

* * *

"BingelyBingelyBeep! It is now eight of the o'clock!" Grace groaned and slapped uselessly at the imp. Her cousin had bought this Dapplebump planner Version 7 at a flea market, and it was beginning to be very irritating. 

"Good morning, Moira!"

Grace couldn't reset the imp's programming, so no how many times she told it her name, she became this Moira person. Whoever Moira was, apparently she was as irritating as this imp, since the imp often told her things on her to do list that she suspected were once on Moira's.

"'S Grace," she mumbled, clutching her head against her hangover.

"On your list of things to do for today, include visit the apothecary for—"

"Shut up."

"—speak to Mr. Baldwin about the new fountain pens—"

"Shut up."

"—audition for the talent scout—"

"I did that yesterday," Grace interrupted.

"—and, wait, what?"

"Yeah. Yesterday at two."

"Oh. Well, what about escort Mr. Door around Casnip?"

"Shut u—wait….oh, yeah, I do need t' do that," Grace commented. She clenched the gold in her fist possessively. That _had_ been a profitable night. She changed into a set of homespun pants with a matching shirt, both of which were stitched in the ugly way amateur garments made by someone who regularly stabbed their thumb with a needle did. They had a familiar, washed out gray that the poor regularly wore. And boy, was Grace poor.

She stuffed the box with the imp in her knapsack, along with her notebook of inspirational sayings and musings, and legged it to the Lazy lady, knowing she was late, probably about fifteen minutes late.

* * *

YOU'RE LATE. 

"Sorry, uh…I got a hangover, you know." Death looked extremely critical. I AM _NEVER_ LATE. IT IS ONE OF MY BETTER KNOWN QUALITIES. Grace sniffed. "Well, surely some people have been late to see you before."

Vaguely Death replied IN A WAY, PERHAPS ALL OF THEM.

"So…you're mad I'm late? It's not like I do that all the time." Death grinned, although normally a skull has no options. But this time he meant it. NO ONE IS EVER LATE WITH ME, MISS TIPPET. EXCEPT ONCE.

Grace felt a chill, but disregarded it.

"You want a tour or not, Mr. Door?"

CALL ME BILL.

"Well, do you Bill?"

ER….YES. WHILE WE DO SO, WILL YOU TELL ME ABOUT THE BOOK YOU ARE WRITING? Grace's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "That's private. You're not trying to steal my ideas are you?"

OH, NO. OF COURSE NOT. I'M JUST A BIG FAN OF YOURS. Grace brightened. "Well, okay, if you insist. I'm thinking on titles. I was going to choose between Morbid Mayhem or Vitalis. Which do you like?" They passed the post office as they walked down the dusty road. "That's our post office. Ankh-Morpork said we should have one, built it, and made us pay for it. But the stamps there are as good as money." Death nodded.

THE POST OFFICE. I SEE. HOW FASCINATING. I THINK YOU SHOUD PUT DEATH IN YOUR NOVEL.

"But it's about love and honor and fear."

I THINK DEATH CAN GO WITH THOSE THINGS, he said, a little hurt.

"Okay, okay. So…Death, then. I could say love was desire. Maybe…..loyalty instead of honor."

PERHAPS DUTY, said Death, wondering why he was having to steer her in the right direction after their discussion last night.

"Hey, yeah, that's genius, that is! Death, Duty, and Desire. A novel in eight parts."

Death sighed, making a sound like tumbleweed across the plains. A DISSERTATION? He asked, an edge in his voice.

"That works too, but I don't know if dissertation is the right word," said Grace grudgingly, then added, "And there's the grocer's. Beside that is the trading post, where you get clothes and your essentials. Across from them is the apothecary, which sells herbs." Death agreeably asked I SUPPOSE HERBS ARE IMPORTANT? Grace gave him a look, and then said matter-of-factly, "Of course. Herbs are healthy."

NIGHTSHADE ISN'T.

"Now you're just being obstinate."

I APOLOGIZE. LET US TALK MORE ABOUT YOUR BOOK. TELL ME ABOUT THE PLOT. Grace looked inordinately pleased at his interest. "Well, I realized that just because a myth is a myth, doesn't mean it isn't real. Werewolves used to be myth, and look what happened! Why can't they be real….and still remain a mythical thing? How do the ideas get in peoples' heads if there wasn't some basis for it? So I thought, why not Death? Big reoccurring theme in literature, Death is. Very sound. Can't argue with it. But just because he's a story, don't mean he isn't real too."

Death was trying not to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

VERY INTRIGUING. PERHAPS I COULD HELP?

"Oh really?" Grace said acidly. "And how could you help, Mr. Bill Doo….ooo….oooohhhh SHIT!" And took off at a dead run, or would have, if Binky hadn't stopped her first.

"Gnnngh…….gnfngl….De…..Dea……rrrghhh"

YES, IT DOES TAKE SOME PEOPLE THAT WAY.

"Er…I'm not going to….." Grace let the sentence hang, not unlike a dead body swaying from a noose

OH, EVERYONE IS. BUT YOU? NOT JUST YET. Grace visibly relaxed. "Oh, okay, then. That's fine. Wait….if you're Death—"

EXACTLY. I THOUGHT YOU PORTRAYED ME VERY WELL. Grace frowned. "I haven't, you know. Not yet. I got to write the story. You came too early. But, do you remember other stuff?"

I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. LIKE IT WAS YESTERDAY. LIKE IT WAS TOMORROW. BUT ABOUT YOU IN PARTICULAR? NOT IN SO MANY WORDS. I REMEMBER MEETING, THEN I REMEMBER THE BOOK. I ASSUME IT WAS BECAUSE WE CONTINUE ASSOCIATION. He noticed her expression. THIS BOTHERS YOU?

"Well, you _are_ the Grim Reaper. But, actually…no author ever has gotten such a big scoop. You've seen everything! Everywhere!"

INCORRECT.

"What?"

I HAVE SEEN EVERYTHING OF THE DISC, AND OF THE L-SPACE INFINITY. BUT NOT SO MUCH OF THE REST OF THE UNIVERSE.

"Still…..I'm a writer. I live in myth. Why not…." She started hesitantly, then said solidly, "actually live _with_ myth? It'd be an experience. That's if it's all right with you, of course."

YOU REALLY WANT TO VISIT? Death asked, astonished.

"Oh, yeah. I'll bet you've got loads of neat things."

YOU'RE REALLY INTERESTED?

"You betcha. When can we go?"

AFTER THE TOUR.

"That _was_ the tour."

OH. WELL, NOW.


	3. Lace

Chapter 3

_I'm never alone_

_I'm alone all the time_

_Are you at one_

_Or do you lie?_

_We live in a wheel where everyone steals_

_And when we rise its like strawberry fields_

Bush- Glycerine

* * *

One said, This is abnormal. Explain. 

A second gray robe came into existence. This was the only way to describe its appearance.

It one universe, it was not there. And then it rewrote the universe to be there. And that was how it always was.

It said, We recall the glass clock. Many of us became individuals.

It said this in distaste, if an Auditor could say anything with emotion.

A third, appearing the same way the second did, added, What have we to do with it? All of us who inhabited a mortal body suffered death due to overwhelming physical sensation. Even the renegade succumbed.

One said, No, that is incorrect. Eight survived. Three perished at their own hands, the renegade among them. Four perished at the hands of true humans. But one…overcame the sensations.

The second said, Correct. It…he…survived to procreate with a human female.

There was a silence as the three Auditors came to a conclusion.

One said, This…produced viable offspring?

The second said, Yes. A human female, an…individual. Suspicion arises that the female may have abilities like us.

The third said, He knows we track him. His location is unknown. But the female is a cause of alarm.

The second said, Yes. She is companion to Death.

The third, who, among Auditor standards, would be nonexistent is it didn't watch itself, said, But what can we do? We are not in Azrael's favor.

One said, We have a plan.

* * *

"Nuh-uh. I'm not wearing lace and black when I go with you on your rounds just so your image is better. It's gray or nothing." 

'NOTHING' IS NOT IN GOOD FASHION.

"The birthday suit is _always_ in fashion. But I'd look like a complete twit in black."

YOU LOOK LIKE A TWIT IN GRAY, Death pointed out. Grace gave a loud _harrumph._

"Well, I don't recall scythes being a fashionable travel accessory."

TOUCHE'.

"I can wear gray?"

WITH A MOTIF AT LEAST?

'Lilies, then."

DONE. I WILL SEND YOU WITH MONEY TO THE STORE.

"Which store?"

WHICH ONE DO YOU WANT? Death asked, and little did he know that if he had been a mortal man, he would be bankrupt at this point. Or married. Although in this case the two went hand in hand.

"Oh, I'm sure I can think of one," Grace said, happier than she'd ever been in her life.

* * *

ALBERT? 

Death's manservant was cooking an egg. Although a burning sort of congealing was also a correct term to describe the chemical process taking place there.

"Master, somethin' on your mind?"

YES. SOMETHING IS WRONG. I NEED A HUMAN ADVICE. FROM A HUMAN, Death added, as if it hadn't been clear.

The crusty old man got a sinking feeling in his gut. No good came of these things when the master got thoughts like this. No good conversation with the master started like this. He wondered what it was about.

"Well, master, what is it?"

I HAVE A GUEST.

"Is it like the plumber from last week?" Albert asked, remembering how wel it had went when the Ankh-Morpork plumber had been commissioned to hollow the pipes. It had been so funny and sad and at the same time, very creepy.

NO. DEFINITELY NOT.

"Well, can't help if you don't tell me, master."

A LADY.

"What? _Here_? You?" Albert was bewildered. He knew something had been terribly wrong. Death, the harvester of souls, the grim reaper, did not have a lady-friend. It was unthinkable.

"Master?" Albert said, pleading a little. "You aren't serious?"

I AM ALWAYS SERIOUS.

Albert, for all the world looking like Napoleon at Waterloo, said nervously, "Well, sir, I was a wizard, and a damn good 'un—"

YES, I KNOW THIS. WHAT RELEVANCE DOES IT HAVE?

"Well, wizards and women…..it's….I mean…well…taboo. Hurts the magical 'fluences."

Death was extremely displeased. Although his face was always grinning, sometimes it could also look very menacing. He was doing that to Albert now. And the manservant disliked the shade of blue his master's eyes were glowing.

OH, I SEE. YOU MEAN THAT YOUR WEAK SELF-CONTROL CAUSED UNWARRANTED THOUGHTS OF PASSIONATE SEX AND ROMANCE, AND YOU COULDN'T FOCUS, AND A WOMAN HERE THREATENS TO DO THAT WITH YOUR COOKING AS WELL. BUT YOU SEE, I AM SAFE FROM THIS; I DON'T HAVE GLANDS. WHICH HAVE A LOT TO DO WITH IT, I NOTICED. WHY ARE YOU SO RED, ALBERT?

"Er….right. Well, guess we can clean up the place, and mebbe add some colorful stuff. An' some lace. Women are keen on lace."

I SEE. Death said, in the thoughtful way he had said they'd needed good plumbing and ended up with solid metal pipes. I WILL GO AND GET SOME THINGS.

Death stepped out of the door from Albert's kitchen, and Albert sighed and looked at the burned, fat encrusted remains of the eggs he's been cooking.

Damn, he thought. And I just got the kitchen back to normal after Ysabell, too.

* * *

_except Albert didn't hold with people who sat around clutching themselves in a dignified (idiotic) manner._


	4. Always Time for One More

Chapter 4

_I can't see your star_

_I can't see your star_

_Though I patiently waited, bedside_

_For the death of today_

_I can't see your star_

_The mechanical lights of Lisbon_

_Frightened it away_

--Evanescence, "Star"

* * *

Susan was grading papers. Normally, this was a rather relaxing and enjoyable time for her, but there were some things that could not be remedied. 

For example, her box of chocolate was gone. This was completely unacceptable. Someone had been into them. Maybe one of the chil—

SQUEAK.

Oh, never mind.

"I thought I said to leave me alone here. At home, fine. But not here." The Death of Rats, gnawing on Susan's last chocolate, a luscious dark cherry delight, gave a muffled GUEAGH, by way of apology. Sighing, Susan knew that this aspect of her grandfather only showed up when he needed something he was either too embarrassed or incapable of getting himself.

Quoth flew in through Susan's window, and alighted down on the circle map of the Disc by Susan's desk.

"Well, I s'pose the rat's here, eh?" he said.

Susan replied curtly, "That's right. And you can just tell my grandfather—"

The Death of Rats started to snigger. SNH. SNH. SNH. Quoth shouted "Shut up, will you? It's not even funny. This is serious." Occasionally Susan was intrigued by something; this was one of them. The Grim Squeaker hadn't been particularly urgent about speaking, which meant it wasn't important. But Quoth seemed to think it was.

"Well?" she said, after a long , embarrassed silence from Quoth. 'What is it? And this better be good; I need to catch up on my grading." Quoth took a deep breath, and let loose, "Well, you know how your granddad gets these funny thoughts, right?" Susan was getting a small frown line to embed itself on her brow; this was _not_ what she wanted to hear. How could he? Now, of all times? Just when things were becoming somewhat nor---no, routine. She would never dare use the word normal in reference to herself ever again.

"What is it?" she asked, exasperated. "What's he gone and done now?"

The Death of Rats skittered behind a bookshelf, and came out with a small hourglass.

SQUEAK, it explained, and motioned with its tiny scythe for Susan to have a look.

She turned it over and said, "It looks just fi—" then stopped. This was not fine.

"This is a living person?" she demanded. Quoth fidgeted uneasily. "Well, y'see, that's the funny bit, look at how the glass is designed. It's subtle."

Susan held the hourglass aloft in the last rays of the sun through her window, paused, and breathed gently, "Ah. This was never normal to begin with."

The Death of Rats nodded vigorously.

"But why would he do this?" Susan said softly. "He's breaking every rule on this one. He didn't even do this for mother or father."

The black bird replied, "This's why we need you. We think he wasn't paying attention to the design; just the sand. She doesn't even need the sand stopped, well, yes and no."

Susan pulled out her faithful poker; it was a comfort in times of crisis or anger. 'I've never had a raven kabob, you know," she said evenly.

"Okay, okay! I'll talk, I'll talk! The hourglass is lines inside, using the bottom of the glass as a starting point, and travels through the wooden support back into the top again; she's got recycled time. She probably ages, but in reality, she's like you. Whether she knows it or not, she isn't affected by time, and was born that way."

Susan took a deep breath. "I should visit this girl. I can't tell grandfather no; there's almost no point, really, but I can make sure that this girl isn't up to something. Where is she?"

Quoth squawked in surprise. "You can't sense her?"

Susan frowned. "No, I can't. I have a sort of idea in my head that she's shopping, but not where. It's like Lobsang, or very similar."

The Death of Rats gestured for the hourglass, and Susan returned it. The miniscule Death scrambled away with it, putting it somewhere for safe keeping. Quoth said, "You were very close about her, though. He gave he money for new clothes. She's writer."

Susan groaned internally. Writers were creative, ingenious, unpredictable, and very illogical. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation. Especially since she needed to go shopping for small box of chocolate.

* * *

Grace was feeling out of sorts. Ankh-Morpork had some of the best shops in the world, but you had to sift through the crummy ones first. And there were quite a few of those. 

In fact, she'd had a terrible headache all day, and by all rights she should have been over that damn hangover. She clutched her head and went Arrrrghh, the standard procedure for hangover sufferers everywhere. But she could swear she heard voices.

Grace thought a bit, and realized she probably ought to eat something. She had a few clothes picked out and had tailored; nothing ostentatious, just work clothes with a few callas lilies done in silver thread on them. So she decided to take a break and go get something nice to eat.

And then she saw a chocolate shop. Grace wasn't fat, but she wasn't a little girl, either. Every woman understands what this is. It's being just shy of fat, and the addition of your favorite chocolate will put you over the edge. It always does. However, eating that wholesome stew with extra beef fat trimmings will never do this. It's a law of nature that only chocolate is allowed to be the reason women get fat.

* * *

When Susan saw the girl, she choked on the milk-chocolate caramel cream she was sampling. Not here! Anywhere but here! 

When the girl, a robust blonde of low maintenance regarding fashion, came up to her and asked, "Is that the new Geinhime Cream that came out?" Susan felt her heart sink. This wasn't going to be easy. This girl had all the capabilities of actually being her friend.

And when Susan explained who she was and that she wanted to talk, Grace went wild. She pulled out a notebook and said, "I _have_ to interview you! The big guy himself doesn't act the way I expected, but you! You're so interesting! On the way to his house he mentioned you, and barely said _anything_! Please, tell me all about yourself. I want to publish this book--"

Susan was lost in the tide of friendship and advertising and Geinhime Creams. And she realized she wasn't going to tell the girl that anything was wrong. In fact, she was going to her grandfather's house. This very evening, to help Grace pick out something sensible to wear for shopping and for going out on rounds with Death.

"Damn it all," Susan said helplessly. Someone had to be told. Someone would have to do something. But her grandfather was oblivious, and wanted to be (if he didn't already know this), Grace was too nice—and oh hell, she was trapped. Trapped, because she knew there was no other way out.

He was a master at trapping her into doing the right thing, into being selfless and…dare she say it?…kind. Now here she was again, because something wasn't right, and trying to make sure the cosmos didn't come unraveled or anything. Grace passed Susan another Geinhime Cream.

"Here you go, Miss Susan."

"Thank you Grace. But no more after this."

"But the next one is a nougat cream and peanut butter."

"Nougat? Oh, nougat never counts. Pass it over.

* * *

Well, not actual silver. This WAS Ankh-Morpork after all. But a very realistic, reasonable, substitute of shiny thread. "Yores for onlee 30 cents pur spoole! A reel Steel!" 


	5. Social and Household Ambience

Chapter 5

_Crawling in my skin_

_There wounds they will not heal_

_Fear is how I fall_

_Confusing what is real_

Linkin Park, Krwling (reanimation)

* * *

"_Dad? Dad!"_

_Grace hurried over to the blond, quiet man who waited at the door. He had no true expression, only an expression of warmth that looked fake. But Grace loved him more than the stars and the moon and the Disc itself._

_A brief hug was exchanged, and he whispered, "I am sorry for the irregularities, Grace. I will try to see you more often." Then her mother, a brown headed, but warm hearted woman, stepped outside….and he vanished into a gray mist that dissipated in the morning sunlight._

"_Sweetheart, what are you doing?"_

_Grace smiled secretly, and honestly said, "Talking to Daddy."_

_Her mother ruffled her hair and replied, "You know very well you've never met your father. As I told you, he ran away before you were born from the local authorities."_

_As she was lead into the house, she turned around. Her father waved to her, turned, and vanished again._

* * *

Susan stood over Grace's prone body inside the chocolate shop. "Oh, thank the Disc you're awake. You're not going back to grandfather's house. It does strange things to people. You can't handle it—" Susan babbled, uncharacteristically, knowing very well Grace would insist they go.

But something about his girl was important; something in Susan's memory was triggered by the girl. Something in Susan's mind wanted to keep this girl from the Domain.

But what?

Grace mumbled, "Sorry. What happened?"

Susan snarled, "You passed out outside Geinhime's shop! I made them bring you in here." Grace smiled. "You're a very nice person, Miss Susan. Although you hide it real well."

The schoolteacher blanched. How dare this…this…writer, this useless writer tell her the way she was honestly and truthfully? She had no right! She barely knew her! And as Susan opened her mouth to give Grace a thunderous monologue of outraged fury, she was stopped when Grace added, "I wish…I had had someone like you when I was young. You're…a very good person. Much…much better than me." Grace's eyes looked hollow, their gray irises…wait…gray?

When were her eyes gray?

Grace got up rather shakily. "Can we go back now, Miss Susan?"

Susan looked at the girl. She was innocent. No one had a right to be that innocent and carefree. She had just collapsed in the middle of the street, and didn't care.

Slowly, but very pointedly, Susan said, "Aren't you bothered that you just passed out here?" She gestured to the filthy and crowded streets of Ankh-Morpork outside the shop, through the window. Grace smiled. "But you were here to help, so I was okay. I don't need to worry."

Susan snarled, "I help too many people as is without you as an added nuisance to my life. My grandfather for instance. Dear old granddad," she hissed, losing control in the face of the girl's unending optimism and lack of common sense. "He leaves or messes up or decides to try and be human and who has to fix it? Me! If there's a crisis, his dear granddaughter Susan will take care of it, oh, no problem! He can just fuck around and rely on the fact I'll be there!"

Grace was trying not to laugh. "And are you?"

Susan was taken aback. "What?"

"You're always there, right? I think…but maybe I'm wrong, that he respects you as both a person and his granddaughter, if he trusts you like that," Grace absently said, as Binky trotted up outside the store. Everything around them was frozen, as if time was stopped. Grace turned and had a look.

"Miss Susan? I know you're doing that. Knock it off."

At last, Susan sighed and didn't argue. "Let's go," she muttered, knowing she had just made a complete asshole of herself. As she had just thought to herself, she didn't know this girl. And she had just completely revealed her private feelings and emotions.

What was worse was Grace seemed unaffected by it. Normal people didn't act like that.

Binky whinnied a little as the two women got on his back, and whisked them off.

* * *

ALBERT, I REALLY THINK THIS COLOR IS UNSUITABLE.

"Master, I promise you, this is what women like! They get all their things gussied up and prettified.'

BUT…SO MUCH PINK? IS THIS NECESSARY?

"Yes," insisted Albert, although deep in his crusty heart he was wondering that very thing. But no wizard in history was uncertain, and he'd be damned if he was fickle now.

FINE THEN. BUT I PICK THE WINDOW ORNAMENTS. I REFUSE TO HANG UP A SMALL WINGED CHERUB IN MY WINDOW, ALBERT. IT JUST DOESN'T LOOK RIGHT, OKAY? I'M CERTAIN WOMEN DON'T LIKE THOSE THINGS.

"And master, exactly what are your experiences with those of the, er, female persuasion?" Albert's mind was dredging up all sorts of unpleasant possibilities for this, but Death solved it all by replying, icier than usual, ALBERT, DO YOU KNOW THAT FEELING WHERE YOU WISH TO STRIKE ALL THAT IS NEAR YOU? INDISCRIMINANTLY AND POWERFULLY? WITH NO THOUGHT TO THE FUTURE?

Gulping down a breath, Albert, replied, "Er, yes, Master. I think I get the point."

There was a knock on the door. Albert hurried to answer it, and there was Grace, and surprisingly to the old man's eyes, Susan.

Who immediately said, "Sweet merciful gods, what happened here!?"

Death abashedly held up a fluffy pink curtain.

ALBERT SAID THIS ADDED AMBIENCE TO THE HOME.

Grace was laughing so hard she was snorting air through her nose. A flash of pain—an image of a gray cloak—then gone again.

Susan looked concerned slightly, but after Grace collapsing, she wasn't too troubled. "Headache?" Grace nodded, "Yeah, a hangover. Mine are pretty bad. Should be gone tomorrow."

SO…Death said, interrupting, SHOULD THERE BE A CHERUB?

* * *

To my two lovely commenters, thank you so much! I updated especially for you two! 


	6. So This Is Love

Chapter 6

_Where has my heart gone__  
Trapped in the eyes of a stranger  
Oh I... I want to go back to  
Believing in everything_

--Evanescence, Field of Innocence

They were all sitting down at Death's table in the kitchen. Albert was displeased, chiefly because the kitchen was…_clean_. Although over two thousand years old, he was still a wizard and an Ankh-Morpork native in his crusty old heart. Being able to see the drain in the kitchen sink had him horribly depressed.

Death was nervous. SO, he began, GRACE. HOW DO YOU LIKE THE HOUSE NOW?

Grace snickered. "You didn't notice me laughing, did you?"

YES, said Death mournfully, I DID. I MUST SAY, THESE WERE PUT UP WITH YOU IN MIND. Grace raised an eyebrow. "You thought I was a teenage school girl?"

Susan looked around the kitchen. "Albert?" she asked quizzically. "You don't match your kitchen anymore." Everyone turned an eye to Albert, who scowled, the drip on his nose more prominent than usual. Susan added, "Not that I mind, it's just that you aren't as...as..."

Albert replied, "I look a damn sight better than my kitchen, and that's that.

Grace smiled. "You know," she said absently, "Albert might look nice with a bit of a make-over." Susan, sipping some tea, snorted into it, and attempted, unsuccessfully, to look dignified after it. Death seemed to ponder this. WHY WOULD ALBERT REQUIRE A NEW APPEARANCE? TO MY KNOWLEDGE, THIS IS WHAT UNATTRACTIVE WOMEN DO WHEN THEY ARE BORED.

Susan and Grace went quiet. Susan sighed, and said, "Grandad? A make-over is simply something you do to make something look better, like what you did to your house." Death looked offended in the way only an anthropomorphic personification can be.

CERTAINLY NOT. MY HOUSE LOOKS MUCH WORSE. HOWEVER, ALBERT, WE CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT YOU.

Albert rolled his eyes. "Now look-"

Death waved his scythe, and suddenly Albert found himself in a black suit, and one of the embarrassing wigs similar to that a judge or aristocrat would wear. He slightly resembled a penguin. His expression, however, had not changed, which rather spoiled the overall effect. That and the fact that the manservant gave Grace a venomous glare, and walked straight out.

Susan said, "Grandad, about Grace—"

Death beamed. YES, I NOTICED YOU AND SHE WERE GETTING ALONG. BUT WE WILL DISCUSS THIS LATER. I MUST GET AWAY FROM YOU (1)—GO ON MY ROUNDS. Trying to pretend he had said nothing problematic, he quickly followed up to Grace. MISS TIPPET, WILL YOU ACCOMPANY ME?

Grace smiled, and said, "Sure."

* * *

Death did not immediately take her out on rounds. He was nervous, and he didn't like being nervous. They were riding around the grounds, and he had created a special area just for her. She was sitting in front of him, looking around interestedly. 

He tried to make small talk.

MISS TIPPET, HOW GOES FINDING MATERIAL FOR YOUR BOOK? he hazarded.

Grace became animated and excited. "Oh, there's so much I want to write about, like how you do the rounds and how you actually usher the souls, the house, oh, and Binky, of course—"

Death lost himself in her conversation, as did all men who mistakenly believed small talk with women was possible. Finally, they came to the place he wanted her to see.

There was a quiet gasp, and Grace dismounted and ran over to it. Death followed her, and asked, WELL? WHAT DO YOU THINK? IT IS FOR YOU, IF…IF YOU WANT IT.

It was a small gazebo, surrounded by white ivy and black roses, made from silvery marble. Grace immediately went inside it and irritated, said, "Aren't you coming?"

Abashed, Death stepped in. Grace took a breath. "If I didn't know better…Bill…I'd say you might like me."

Death coughed. OF COURSE YOU KNOW BETTER, he said, rubbing one hand on the back of his cowl, feeling awkward. Grace's eyes narrowed. "It's a figure of speech. I mean that I think you might be a little in love with me."

OH, THANK THE GODS. I WAS AFRAID YOU'D NEVER CATCH ON. (2)

Grace laughed. "Bend down," she ordered. Death did, and light as a butterfly's touch, she planted a kiss on the chill bone of his skull, where a cheek would be on a living man. "You're so sweet," she laughed again. "Who would have thought it of the Grim Reaper."

_And so gullible, _one added.

And suddenly the gazebo was surrounded by Auditors, hundreds, and Death swung his scythe defensively, warding them away from Grace.

_We care not for the half-breed,_ one said.

_By Azrael's decree, we cannot eliminate you from existence. But we can do one better._

Death was bore up on the tide of gray robes that swirled around them and by them, and pulled him into the sir, suspending him, making him almost helpless. Almost. Occasionally his scythe would encounter an unfortunate Auditor, and slice if from realty.

The lead Auditor, if they had leaders, glided up to him and said, _And now, Death will know life, _gleefully as an emotionless embodiment of nihilism could be.

There was a crackle of lightning, Grace screamed, and then, terribly, so did Death.

NOOOOOOOOOOooooo….OOOoooooooohhhhhh…….bugger."

As the smoke and Auditors dissipated from the area, Grace saw him.

A naked man uncurled from the ground, with no hair at all, although not too bad looking for a middle-aged man, sitting on a tattered black cowl. His eyes were more blue than eyes had a right to be.

"I can feel," he said, incredulously.

* * *

(1) Death does not often let on his true emotions. However, in the light of Albert's shocking new wardrobe, he can be granted some leeway. 

(2) No woman ever catches on that the man loves her. Not until it's too late. This is in fitting with stories everywhere, and also lead up to the famous Ankh-Morpork romance of Sosheau and Graztleena. Sosheau lived in a shack, Graztleena did not, and so she never noticed him. One day, however, he happened upon a very large diamond, and Graztleena consented to marry him. When his rival Dominiris threatened their love, Sosheau used the diamond to beat his skull in. Many a night an Ankh-Morpork woman wishes the story ended differently. The gods cursed the love, and changed Sosheau into an American Republican, and Gratzleena into a purveyor of Klatchian keychains. They had a child together, and his name was William Shakespeare.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who gave me reviews! Thanks for those who favorite the story! I know this isn't too funny, but it needed to be a little serious to advance my plot. If you guys have suggestions, let me know! I'd be happy to look at them! 


	7. Teenage Angst

**Chapter Seven**

_If love is surrender_

_(then whose…)_

_Then whose war is it anyway?_

-Frou Frou, "Psychobabble"

They were inside Death's, no, possibly Bill was more accurate at this point, Bill's kitchen, trying to ascertain if the Grim Reaper was all right.

"I'm fine," he said, in a low baritone of a voice. Grace involuntarily got the image of him holding a rose in his mouth in a dark bedroom stuck in her head. He really did have a bedroom sort of voice.

"Grace," Susan said, for the third time.

"Oh, sorry, yes?"

"The Auditors, what do you think they're plan is?"

"Why are you asking me?"

Everyone looked at her. Grace had the sensation of vujá de, that feeling when something happens that has never happened, but feels like it has quite a lot.

"No, seriously, why are you asking me? I don't know what an audimathingy is anyway. Except human tax collector ones. Actually there's a really funny story about that—"()

Bill Door gave her a slow, calculating look. "It called you half breed. Why would that be?"

Grace went quiet. Somehow, the thought that Bill didn't like her anymore was very upsetting. Especially after thinking it might be possible to get him to strip off the clothes Albert had rummaged up for him and get him to put a rose in his mouth and lay on some silk bed sheets---no, wait, she was losing her focus. Why was that?

_Half-breed, you will not interfere,_ came a loud, apathetic sounding voice in her head. It wasn't exactly a voice per se, it was more like someone had just arranged all her own thought so that she had thought this strange thing to herself. Grace remembered that this was what had happened at the gazebo when they had transformed Death into Bill.

_Maybe I AM half of an Auditor. Whatever they are._

Susan then said, to her relief, "Well, it looks like Grace was used as a tool to get in here. I think they'll leave her alone now that they accomplished what they set out to do. But we can't trust her anymore. Grace, you're going to have to put your book on hold."

"But _why_?" she asked, upset.

"Because the Auditors don't know a lot about this place. And right now, we don't want them to. So don't write anymore. Give me what you have so far."

Grace reluctantly passed over her notes. There were several drawings of Death, and extremely nice one of Susan, and several unflattering cartoons of Albert with a skillet. The rest were fragments of chapters, notes about souls, and about Death's personality and history.

Bill smiled at her. Grace felt a flutter in her chest. She couldn't remember liking anyone so much. Or having a worse headache.

"I need to go lie down," she muttered, not looking at Bill, but thinking about him all the same.

Bill Door stood up so fast his chair ricocheted off the back wall. "I'll escort you," he said, his voice sounding eager, happy, and horribly suggestive, although Grace had a suspicion he didn't realize it.

Susan frowned. "No hanky-panky, you two." She said this sternly. Albert nearly choked on his egg. "The Mater? Hanky—Susan, that's nonsense!"

"Take a look for yourself. They aren't even listening. Worse than teenagers," she muttered the last part emphatically.

Death held Grace's hand as they walked the long corridors of the Domain's house. "I never knew what human feelings were like. No glands," he explained on the way. "But now…it's overwhelming. Breathing, eating, the feel of clothing on skin…how can you live with these things?" he asked, looking a little horrified at the thought of actually living with them himself.

Grace smiled shyly. "Not all sensations are bad," she said. "If you had had glands, the gazebo kiss would have been different."

"Really? How?"

Grace stared into those burning blue eyes, and her worries circled in her head like vultures. Was she half Auditor? Would she betray him? Was this love? Should she really write this book about him? Wasn't the kiss idea taking advantage of his ignorance? Was this love?

She leaned forward and her lips met his. They did not part for a very long time.

His hand rested on her shoulder, overwhelmed. His mouth opened, and Grace let her tongue slide in. Bill shuddered. She moved in closer to him, gently pressing her body against his, an invitation, if he accepted it. If he even knew how.

A low moan escaped his lips. "No, I…no. I won't," he said suddenly. "This is madness. This…touching! I will not do it! Good day, Miss Tippet!"

He turned around and left, leaving a very confused Grace there to ponder why he was so frightened.

_()This funny story involved a cheesewire trap, 25 kilograms of molasses, and chicken feed. It also involved someone forcing hung over Grace to awake at six in the morning, and the first words she heard were "I see you've only paid ¾ of your taxes this year, Miss Tippet." Such words men war._

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! I apologize for the lapse in updating, but college has been hectic!


	8. Changes

Chapter Eight:

Kore ha hana ni shindeimasu.

anata no hana ha dore desu ka

uchi ni kaete o kudasai

Japanese

The flowers are dead.

Which flower is yours?

Please return home.

Englsh. Written and translated by me.

Bill Door sat in the kitchen, staring out the back door at his Dark Country. It felt so foreign now, but why?

Albert patted him on the back. "Master, I know your condition, but you 'ave to go out an' do the Duty tonight." Bill Door stared up at him with eyes like supernovas trapped inside sapphires. "I do not know if I can, Albert," he said at last.

Albert tried to feel sympathy, then failed miserably at it. "Oh, so you could let young Mort go and do the Duty! Is that it, Master? And your granddaughter, who, I might add, suffers from a normalcy complex I don't even want to think about! They weren't ready, and didn't know a thing! But you, you really are the Grim Reaper, even if you aren't just a skeleton no more, don't have it in you to do the job you was created for?"

Bill Door stood up. His eyes gleamed, on fire with new motivation. ()

" I will go," he said, taking the scythe from Susan, and almost cutting off her hair.

"Fry me an egg, by the way, Albert," he added, as he stalked out the door.

Grace was more than a little hurt. He has rejected her; that was obvious. Part of her wanted to hit him, and the other part whispered vicous little reasons why it was obvious he had acted thusly.

And somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, a voice that was not a voice whispered things to her that were not commands or suggestions, but somewhere in between. It was something a living person would not conceive.

But Grace only seemed alive because no one had had told her she wasn't, not really.

Bill Door was finding difficulty in the Duty. The hourglass said Alayne Berribo on it, and he could just barely discern that Alayne Berribo was a witch. A witch who did not want to die.

* * *

Normally, as Death, he had a sense to find any living creature. For some reason, he couldn't sense Mistress Berribo. This was going to be a tough night.

He found her in her cottage, which was magicked to look like a cheap pawn shop. He went inside, and then a strange sensation swept over him. It took him a moment to realize he had just used a doorknob.

She was hiding behind a billowing curtain. He could even see her feet. (())

"Damn," she said, as he pulled the curtain back curiously, wondering if she had been suffocated by the curtain. "Guess I'm too scatterbrained to avoid you this ti--wait, who the hell are you? I'm a witch, I am, and I am entitled to the attention of Dea--"

"Wait," he said desperately, "I can explain!"

"You bloody well better!"

He told her. She sat down on her bed, amazed and laughing.

"And then Grace goes and kisses me, and what do I do? I'm Death, I cna't go around having affairs--"

"But Bill Door can," said the witch.

"What?" he said, surprised.

"You heard me, laddybuck. Death can't go around poking young ladies, but Bill Door just might have a little bit of stud in him." Something was happening to Bill's face. A lot of red was taking it over all at once.

Alayne Berribo cackled in glee. "Oh-ho! You didn't think of that, now did you?"

"Can I ask something--" I MEAN, he said, realizing things were becoming too friendly. He reminded himself he had to kill this woman--no, not kill, collect. He had to remember that. I MEAN, he repeatedly awkwardly, I WISH TO ASK SOMETHING.

"Oh, talk like a man. You ARE a man right now. Say, Yes, Mistress Berribo."

Something in him couldn't say no to the matronly witch.

He mumbled, "Yes, Misstress Berribo."

"Now ask me whatever it is thats more important than my death," she said crossly.

"How do you humans do it? Live, I mean. How can you stand it?"

The wrinkled, ancient face smiled. "Oh, my laddybuck, we people never said we could stand it. There's a lot we don't accept. Like death, for example. Or love. Or the passin' of time. But there's a trick to it." Suddenly, she wheezed, and fell backwards onto her bed, knocking her oil lamp onto the ground. It shattered, and began setting the cottage systematically ablaze.

Bill Door immediately leaped up, swooped up the crone in his arms, and ran outside. He set hee down a good ways away from the smoke. She was wheezing and shuddering. He turned back to the house. It was burning cheerfully, with no intentions of stopping anytime soon.

"Trick is, Mr. Door, to take it...one day at...a time..." She rasped now. "Til the day we die, it's what all humans do. And...we don't...have to stand everything. Maybe you...don't like a certain...person. Or...some foods. It's all in...doing it...gradually. Now how about you swing that scythe for me, Bill?"

He said, "I don't want to kill you."

"You ain't." she said flatly. "Sweet Time took her toll on me. The waking up and...rattling my old bones until the pain gets to where I can get out of bed...the times I don't feel nothing...them are killing me."

"But you don't want to die," he said desperately. YOU EVEN HID YOUR SHOP FROM ME.

"But that don't change that I'm dying right now...you swing that scythe, and...I'll take it from there."

He swung the scythe.

"_Oh, very nice_," she said, examining her body. "_Word of advice, you take that girl of your out to dinner or to the opera. You warm up to her gradually, and maybe when you two kiss next time it won't be so bad_."

"But there won't BE a next time," he wailed.

The witch laughed. Her skin became smoother, her hair like gold, and her eyes a narrow brown. "_Oh, Bill Door, I'm glad you showed up. Definitely better like this than as a skeleton. Angsty, too. I'm going to go on now, and you go home_."

Bill Door sat there watching the house burn. And then went where home should have been, but no longer felt like.

THANKS FOR THE REVIEWS, HOPE THIS CHAPTER IS WELL-RECEIVED!

* * *

() Not literally on fire. Just the inspirational kind of fire, which is harmless to everyone except Ephebian inventors, who often go running around naked in towels after having inspiration in that bath. Apparently bathwater doesn't put that kind of fire out.

(()) It is a known fact hiding behind curtains is ridiculous. However, hiding inside a bear or tiger rug is perfectly acceptable, and there is no chance of being discovered. However, the chances for being trod on in a humorous manner are high. Mistress Berribo, being an ancient old woman, had decided not to risk it.


End file.
